From the personal blog of William Munday, retrieved 23/03/2014
An Inspector Calls
Forgive the title. I couldn’t help myself.
I should really check into a proper hotel or something, but I haven’t had the advance on my next book yet and ‘unca George’ didn’t see fit to leave me any money when he had a pretty intern to give it to. I’ve been here enough days now, untangling his mess, that people know where to find me and I’ve gotten to be on nodding terms with a few dog walkers and the guy at the corner shop.
I’ve been here long enough that a policeman knew to come looking for me here just after breakfast and take me for a little stroll in the park to ask me about uncle George.
I knew there had to be more to this. Since I got here I’ve had this paranoid feeling that something is going on, just outside my reach, just beyond my grasp and it seems like Detective Inspector Grass feels the same way.
He told me he’d worked with my uncle a few times over the last couple of years. It all started with a suicide cult, though I don’t remember anything from the news about it. Grass told me they’d had a bunch of complaints about travellers on a site not that far from here but when they went to knock on doors and move them on they all had apart from one bus. The people in that were almost all dead, weird writing all over the walls, foreigners fresh across the channel different to the other travellers.
Nobody could make sense of the writing and the survivors – they’d deliberately poisoned themselves with ergot – the kind of poison associated with outlandish tales of witches and devils in the past – and had contorted themselves to death. Those that hadn’t didn’t speak English anyway and didn’t say much of anything.
Nobody knew what the writing or symbols were and give Uncle’s work on languages and cryptography (back in the day) they consulted with him about it, but even he couldn’t tell them much about it. It was meaningful, but he couldn’t work out what it meant – and nobody really gave enough of a damn about a handful of dead, illegal immigrants anyway.
DI Grass seemed a bit intense and it all sounded a bit off the books. He was a bit too excited about everything and told me he’d been looking into this since the first incident and that there were others. That he’d talked to my uncle on and off about it and that these deaths were ‘hidden’ somehow. If he hadn’t had a badge I’d have written him off as one of those internet ‘truthers’ who’d drunk too much of the David Icke Kool-Aid.
Plus he seemed to agree with my suspicions that my uncle’s death might not have been as natural as it seemed.
He’s going to stay in touch, but I’m not that sure how to take it.
I’m keeping this post locked down for now, friends only.